Cage
by Stephane Richer
Summary: it doesn't matter now that her hand has been forced.


Cage

Disclaimer: don't own

Notes: Day 9 of the 30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge by ghiraher on tumblr: matching soul mate markings

* * *

She wants to burn it off, to reduce it to a mangled and unrecognizable mass on her shoulder, an inflammation, a mistake—but it wasn't a mistake. She tugs at the ends of her hair; it's still short and she still feels naked by the sea, the spray smashing against the rocks and flying toward her like the unshakeable truth, her much-resented destiny. They were meant to be, determined since birth to become entangled if they met—isn't it a happy thing? Nobuo had often sighed and told her he envied her and how lucky she was to have found the one whose mark matched hers, but is it really lucky? It had felt like chains sometimes, that no matter how much she longed to escape from him she could not, that the world had brought them together despite their very best efforts—the better it felt to be with him the guiltier and more resentful she felt, the more she felt locked in some sort of gilded cage.

But now that she is free from him, now that he is gone, was it worth it? Was being with him worth her freedom, and is her independence worth losing him forever? Those are the kind of questions she cannot answer; it doesn't matter now that her hand has been forced.

* * *

He didn't see it the first time they met; she did not see his either—for a fleeting moment she had hoped fervently that he had the marking, too; she spent the rest of the show chiding herself for thinking such foolish thoughts; even without the old woman in her life there are still things that cannot be hoped for—maybe she does deserve that raise at her bookshop job and maybe she should want to wear a red dress to a concert like this more often but she should not hope impossible things about this man in front of her.

He looks more alive than anyone in this town has the right to be; his eyes are shining and his fingers are almost a blur of motion no matter how closely she's watching and the curl of his lip is hard, almost the same way hers is—it's a defense against the world, a shield formed and readied before they can realize they want to attack. The music would be almost irrelevant if it wasn't so loud and so perfect; this is real punk and this is the real sound that she's only heard through the tinny speakers of her third-hand boom box when she puts one of Nobuo's CDs on, and there are finally no barriers. Other people in the crowd are screaming and rushing up to the stage but she finds herself unable to move (and what would she do if she got closer? This is the perfect angle; she can see all of him from the soles of his studded boots to the tips of his spiked hair, and she will not give up this moment, this eerie connection between them.

* * *

She walks into the room and there he is, with Nobuo and another guy—he stares at her, gaze darting to the noticeable spot on her shoulder and at that moment she regrets wearing a tank top—it's one thing at the bookshop or around town where everyone avoids her anyway, but she is not prepared. She turns and bolts and she hears that voice, exactly the way she heard it briefly through the thick air of the room and the shouting in the background, exactly the way it's been haunting her dreams along with his visage and (more often than not) the prospect of his hands on her.

"Nana, we're the same," he whispers—he grabs her scarf but does not touch the mark, waiting for permission.

The tears fall from her eyes down her cheeks and he wipes them with a shaking reverence, and even if he's lying she's fallen too hard to get up and catch her breath right now so she gathers what's left of her dignity and sinks into his arms.

* * *

His is on the inside of his thigh, a lotus flower just like hers—that's why they named him Ren at the orphanage, he says, after the plant because Renge was too feminine and she is not quite brave enough yet to tell him that it would suit him just as well. But he is hers; it's an odd feeling, this mutual possession of each other; it's like they're holding each other for ransom but they're the only ones who would pay the price. Her melodies, improvised and raw, suit his bass lines to an absurd degree—Yasu and Nobuo fall into position with them but sometimes they're just an accessory to the bond.

Sometimes she dreams of being in Ren's arms, of his grip becoming tighter and tighter until she cannot breathe, of their flowers pollinating one another until vines grow from their skins and tangle up but to cut them would hurt more than even a deeply masochistic person could take (and in their own ways they're both masochists) and she cannot free herself from him no matter how much she wants to—and those nights she wakes up wild-eyed and pushes him over to the other side of the bed. He does not wake; she lies unable to sleep again, cold under the thin layer of blankets because the landlord's too damn cheap to turn up the heat.

* * *

It was better back then; they could keep from being haunted too hard; they were together and no matter how rosy this past looks it feels so real. Everything after the train seems like a bad dream, full of missteps—was Hachi even real? No matter how loudly or boldly she sings, the instruments behind her still seem hollow and empty and lifeless, devoid of any importance; sometimes she ends up singing in the wrong key because every key seems wrong and they do not help her or mesh with her. No matter how cold the water is on her feet or against her face, she still cannot wake up from this nightmare.


End file.
